


Action Potential

by KrisRix



Series: Three-Chord Progression [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: A lot of stress about blow jobs with minimal actual blowing, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Birthday Smut, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: It's been exactly nine days since I last had any alone time with Simon—any intimate time. He came to my flat on Valentine's Day, sucked me off in my kitchen, and spent the night in my bed. Firsts, all of it.You would think, therefore, that this would ease some of the tension between us. You would think that him coming around on my birthday with the intention of spending the nightagainwould be not quite as nerve-wracking, given the hurdles we’ve cleared.Au contraire.I'm more nervous than ever.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Three-Chord Progression [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645438
Comments: 36
Kudos: 407





	Action Potential

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Baz! 🖤 I'm a bit late again... And this is not very smutty at all, it turns out. Sorry!  
> Thank you so so much to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for the beta help!  
> This is a sequel to [Love Season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730992), so you should probably read that first!

BAZ

While I wait for my tea to steep, I begin a text conversation with Snow.

— _Are you still coming over this afternoon?_

— _yep, good morning birthday boy_

— _I'm awake before 800h on a Saturday; is it truly a "good" morning?_

— _I'm gunna ignore ur use of a colon in a txt but only cuz its ur birthday_

— _It's a semicolon, you plebiscite._

— _anything I can do to improve the shitty mood ur clearly in???_

— _No… thank you. I'm looking forward to seeing you later._

— _don't get ur hopes up_

— _This may come as a surprise, but I simply enjoy your presence._

— _wow mate that's pretty gay_

— _I take it back. Don't come over._

— _x_

— _o_

I set down my mobile on the kitchen table and take a long sip of tea. I have at least five hours before Snow arrives. I’ve been counting down the hours for days.

I’ve seen him in the usual amounts this week, the two of us sitting in his flat while I focus on my coursework. There was a time, not long ago at all, that those sorts of days in the Bunce-Snow living room would have hurt—those days when merely existing in his presence was the most generous version of himself he could give me.

Things aren’t like that any longer. When we sit in silence, it’s because it’s comfortable. Not quite _easy_ , but the potential is there.

There’s quite a _lot_ of potential, lately.

I've been immersing myself in my studies more thoroughly than usual this past week. This is partly due to the increased demands of my coursework. Mostly it’s because I'm a coward.

It's been exactly nine days since I last had any alone time with Simon—any intimate time. He came to my flat on Valentine's Day, sucked me off in my kitchen, and spent the night in my bed. Firsts, all of it.

You would think, therefore, that this would ease some of the tension between us. You would think that him coming around on my birthday with the intention of spending the night _again_ would be not quite as nerve-wracking, given the hurdles we’ve cleared.

 _Au contraire_. I'm more nervous than ever.

The ordeal of Simon dropping to his knees and rendering me senseless was life-altering. In a good way. A _very_ good way. Also a very, _very_ terrifying way.

We're no longer staring over a precipice—we're dangling off of it with weakening grips. I’m both too stubborn to help us back up, yet too ashamed to commit to the plunge.

I want him. I’ve _wanted_ him _—_ I’ll _always_ want him. I’ve fantasized about Simon Snow in multitudes that rival the stars. I’ve put myself through heaven and hell in my imaginings of him. My longing for him is as fundamental to the universe as energy, and for every fantasy of life and love and matter, there has always been its opposite—the antimatter of my yearning, poised for destruction.

For as often as Simon has been my respite, he has also been the whip with which I’ve lashed myself time and again.

How could a Pitch love the Mage’s Heir? How could a bully beg for forgiveness? How could a vampire ask for affection?

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa._

How could I foist all my years of desire onto him? This need that has been smothered into the darkest, most disturbed crannies of my being, left to rot and gnarl? How could I be that selfish?

Everything was easier, in a way, before Simon kissed me. I could torture myself for the pleasure and the pain of it, and he could carry on, none the wiser. We were nothing. Then he went and gave me something—hope, potential—and I latched on like the monstrous leech I am, taking, taking—

If I had my way, I would take him until there was nothing left.

I nearly did. We came so, so close to falling apart. I’m well aware of how much Simon wanted to end things between us. All because I couldn’t stop wanting, couldn’t keep the barbs of it embedded in me where it belonged. He had no choice but to shrink back as my reach for him only grew. Of course he didn’t want to be brushed by the intensity of what’s festered in me for so many years.

He doesn’t even realize the depth of it. The moment Simon raged about me pushing him, I withdrew as completely as I could, and we stagnated there for months. No, worse—we slid back. My days as his enemy afforded me more opportunities to be close to him than what we had those long, long months.

But now… _now_ there’s progress. _Potential_. And he has no idea how terrifyingly deep my lust goes.

Simon Snow punishes himself every day for creating the Humdrum. It’s nearly distracted him from remembering that I’m the dark creature at risk of draining us until there’s nothing left. I’m the one with the cavernous hunger. I’m the threat. I’m the black hole.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa...._

And so, here I sit in my flat, an arguably-immortal creature tortured by the slow passage of time, as I wait for my birthday celebration to begin. A laughable concept on its own, made all the worse by said creature being a vampire and said celebration being the promise (the threat) to suck my boyfriend dry.

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a cursed life.

SIMON

The past nine days have been torture. Once I got back to my place after that whole Valentine’s thing with Baz…? I was kind of a wreck. Not a _wreck_ wreck, not how I used to be—I was confused. Nervous.

I talked to my therapist about it, even though I really didn’t want to. I mean, we “talked” through Skype messages—I wasn’t able to actually _talk_ about it _out loud_. (Christ. Can you imagine?)

It helped me not feel as weird about it. Because I liked what I did for Baz. (That’s a huge understatement, really, but yeah.) It was freaky…and a hell of a rush…and I _liked_ it. I wanted it.

I want it again.

That’s not news. I’ve thought about this stuff before, late at night or in the shower—alone. Chaste stuff at first. I wasn’t sure how to do it otherwise. Not like I had a lot of wank practise from Watford—never had the time or energy or privacy for it. And…I guess I was always too fucked up about Baz to let my mind wander that much.

Then I figured, well, we’re dating now, so it’s okay if I let my mind wander…let myself think of him....

And, fuck, I did. I thought about his surprisingly rough hands, and his solid chest, and his strong thighs, and all the different sounds I could draw out of him. Baz makes such beautiful sounds....

Things went to shit when I got brave enough to imagine more details. I started to think about what those pouty lips of his would look like wrapped around me, what that cool tongue would feel like, what sort of expression he’d make if I grabbed his hair—

And then the anxiety came on. Hit me over the head like an ogre club. I imagined our eyes meeting and freaked out. Even in my fucking fantasies, if our eyes met, I panicked.

Pathetic.

Suddenly, I was _too_ aware of what I wanted from Baz. What those wants would _mean_. I was too aware of _everything_ —I’d already been so fucking worried about all the non-sex stuff, trying so hard to fight those thoughts back. When I paired all that fear and insecurity up with thoughts about pushing Baz to his knees…well. I felt fucking sick with myself, didn’t I? Felt so sick, I couldn’t bear to think about him like that at all. Couldn’t bear to let him touch me, even in my fantasies.

It sounds pretty stupid to say I’ve been wanking as a form of therapy…but. Yeah. These past few months, I’ve been letting myself do that again, letting myself think of Baz while I get off.

_(Thinking about him isn’t wrong, wanting him isn’t wrong, wanting him to want me isn’t wrong—)_

Man, it’s so easy to jack it to thoughts of Baz since I let him start snogging me again. We kiss and neck until I think I’m about to go off, and then I use that memory—all those beautiful sounds of his—until I see him again.

For the past few months, that’s the sort of glacial progress I’ve been making.

But now…suddenly, it’s not glacial. It’s snowballing. It’s bordering on a whole fucking avalanche. There’s more than just progress—there’s _potential_.

It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the past nine days. Baz comes over, and we sit close—but not too close—and he focuses on all his school work, and I play FIFA and try not to think about how his prick is _right there_ —

I want to suck him again, and I haven’t got the courage. I don’t know what came over me that day. I don’t know how to get back there.

And more than that—more than thinking about sucking Baz—I’ve been thinking about _him_ sucking _me_. Which is something I’ve been trying very hard not to think about on a general basis, and _now_ —

Well. _Now_ …

Now, I’ve gone and stupidly suggested I’d let Baz blow me, didn’t I? For his _birthday_ , for snake’s sake. As if tying my prick with a bow is the sort of respectable birthday present you give someone. Especially the _first_ birthday present you give someone. Especially someone like _T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch_.

Except…except maybe it _is_ the sort of present you give your pretentious, perfect, _patient_ boyfriend for his birthday. Because…for some fucked up reason…he wants me. Despite how far I’ve fallen, despite how hard I tried to push him away.

He’s still _mine_.

I tried to tell myself he’s better off without me. Maybe especially _because_ I want him so much—love him so much, need him so much. I want him to be mine completely, even though I worry he’s not getting even half of what he deserves. It’s selfish, the way I latch on to him.

But…but if Baz says he wants me, also…if _Baz fucking Pitch_ —my flawless, obnoxiously fit boyfriend—says he wants my prick in his mouth on his birthday, then who the fuck am I to argue?

So. Yeah. The past nine days have been torture. I’ve been pacing the flat. I’ve been going on runs. (That’s, like, a thing I do now.)(Especially when Penny can’t take my pacing any more.) I’ve been taking very long showers. I’ve been going to sleep sated and waking up wanting all over again.

The past two days have been the absolute worst, though.

Baz says he isn’t pressuring me. He isn’t.

_(He isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’t—)_

The calendar’s doing all the pressuring for him.

I feel spring-loaded.

I’m nervous and I’m pressured and I _want_.

And Baz…Baz _wants_ , also....

I just. I just need to be completely sure.

BAZ

I spend the morning performing the longest, most indulgent versions of my grooming rituals as a birthday treat for myself. I change my outfit three times and my hair twice. (I slicked it back the first time without thinking, then had to wash it out and start the hair treatment process all over again.)

By noon, my hair is nicely blown out with just a bit of mousse to take care of any fly-aways. It’s silky, a little in my face—exactly how Snow likes it. I’m wearing black jeans with thin gold stitching down the outer seam, a gold watch on my wrist, and a dark green button up with lighter green fronds patterned throughout. I’m also on my fourth cup of tea.

I consider having a wank to take the edge off, but then I worry I won’t be able to get hard again if needs must. I could have some blood now to minimize that concern, but then I run the risk of becoming hard too easily, instead....

By the time Snow buzzes up around one-thirty, my nerves are frayed. I greet him at the door, swinging it open before he can knock. He looks stiff, surprised. My stomach lurches.

And then—oh, and _then_ he smiles at me. Sky-blue eyes and chapped lips and cold-kissed skin. My stomach swoops, then settles.

“Happy Birthday, babe,” he says as he leans up to kiss me.

Crowley…I grab his coat and pull him inside. Snow just keeps on smiling, even as he kicks my door shut behind him with his slushy boots, and as he grabs my shirt and pulls me right back. He lets me press him against the door and keep on kissing him. He releases my shirt to slip a hand into my hair.

“ _Mnn_ , Baz," Snow eventually grumbles against my mouth, his hand dropping to give my shoulder a nudge. "Wait a sec, let me put this down."

I step back from Snow, embarrassed by my naked enthusiasm. I hadn't even noticed he's been holding something in his other hand this whole time....

"Are these flowers?" I foolishly ask as he presses the bouquet into my arms.

Snow chuckles. "Yeah, know how much you like florals and stuff," he says with a nod towards my shirt. He shrugs off his coat, and I'm not sure what I'm more surprised by: the bouquet (roses and asiatic lilies, both in a deep burgundy) or Snow's outfit (a dark grey Henley under an open black and green plaid shirt, with black denim trousers).

"Hey," he suddenly delights, "we kind of match."

I barely swallow down the _'I love you'_ threatening to wrench it's way out of my body.

SIMON

Baz clears his throat all dramatically and flees for the kitchen, muttering something about a vase. I _think_ it's a good sign. I fuss with wiping off my boots as best I can before joining him.

“It’s a lovely arrangement,” he says while getting them all nicely set up.

“Yeah? Good.”

“Thank you, Snow.”

“Sure. I mean. You’re welcome.”

That carefree energy from a minute ago’s completely gone now that we’re both standing in his kitchen. _The_ kitchen. We’re both trying very hard not to look at where it all went down.

There’s more to his present—properly more. But it’s in my coat pocket, which is on a hook by the door, and I don’t want to go back for it because I don’t want Baz to think I’m running away. I rub at my hair and hold my ground.

Baz can only fuss with the flowers so much. His eyes hit mine, and I try not to flinch.

“Lunch?” he blurts.

“ _Fuck,_ yeah.”

BAZ

It’s not that I don’t want more alone time with Snow. I simply don’t know how to handle it.

Thankfully, there’s a small pub that I like well enough just down the street, so off we go. I nearly take his hand before remembering we don’t do that any more. I can’t help wondering if I could…if the place we’ve progressed to is somewhere I can hold my boyfriend’s hand in public.

Maybe not yet. Maybe soon.

I secure us a small two-top away from the draughty front doors, and Snow heads for the bar. Over the chatter of the other patrons, I can hear Snow placing the order: “We’ll get the bangers and mash, curry chips, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon”—I hate how much I love the way he butchers the pronunciation—“and a cider—no, uh, wait, a pale ale, I’ll take whatever pale ale you’ve got.”

Snow plops down across from me once he has the drinks. He lifts his ale, so I lift my glass. His smile is crooked and charming. “To you, Baz.”

We toast. And we chat, while we wait for the food. I leave one hand on my glass and the other on the tabletop. I’m not expecting anything…it’s there if he wants it. And eventually, he does—Snow knocks his fingers against mine, then nudges a bit, then finally settles his hand in my own. When the food comes, he yanks away. But it’s still progress. And I still keep my hand available now and again throughout, letting him know the potential for more is there. (He doesn’t take it. That’s all right.)

At some point, I slip off to get a second round. Snow’s rifling around in his coat when I get back.

“What did you lose?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he huffs, then grins triumphantly when he frees an envelope from the inner pocket. (It’s only a little crumpled.) He thrusts it at me. “Got you a present.”

“More than flowers?” I take the offering, plucking it open. (He merely tucked the flap in, forgoing sealing it.)(I’m momentarily distracted by the mental image of Snow licking an envelope.)(Merlin and Morgana, that’s pathetic.)

Snow stays quiet, watching me as I read the contents of the envelope. It’s not a card. It’s a print-out....

SIMON

Baz isn’t saying anything, even as he scans the paper a second time. So I start babbling, “Your term ends on the 23rd, yeah? I know that’s a month away, but we thought you’d want something nice after that, something relaxing. I said ‘we’— I meant me and Penny. Penny went in on it with me. But, um, it’s just for two. Penny’s not actually, um— I mean, I was kind of thinking— Well, it’s definitely only meant for two, but I suppose you could take whoever you want—”

“ _Snow_ ,” Baz interrupts, thank magic. He finally lifts his gaze from the damn paper. “Is this…for us?”

My face is all red, I can feel it. “Yeah. Um. Yeah. It is.”

Baz gives me that _look_. The one that I used to think meant he wanted to tackle me, but— Actually, I suppose it still _does_ mean he wants to tackle me.

He grabs hold of my wrist, real tight. “Thank you,” he says in a rush.

“You like it?”

“Yes.” And then, he laughs, like he can’t believe it. “Excessively.”

I smile, and I wriggle my fingers under the cuff of his shirt to touch his wrist, too. And then I smile some more.

BAZ

I admit that I was briefly disappointed Snow got me a present, despite how hard I tried to quash any hope that my present would instead be the opportunity to perform oral sex on my boyfriend. My disenchantment was gone the moment I realized what the gift is: a print-out of the reservation for a two-nights’ stay at a spa hotel up north.

Just the two of us.

My heart’s in my throat. It stays there for the duration of our lunch. Snow hasn’t yet finished his second drink. I tug on his wrist with building impatience.

“What?” he says with a grin. He hasn’t _stopped_ grinning, really.

“I desperately need to kiss you,” I admit, “and I can’t wait much longer.”

Snow’s blush puts the bouquet he bought me to shame. “Oh. Um.” He frees himself from my grip, sending my heart crashing back down. But then he starts fumbling for his coat. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

* * *

The flat smells like flowers, which is extremely lovely. I’ll take the time to enjoy it later—for now, all I can focus on is the smell of Snow. The scents of our food and drink are clinging to him, though I can still catch his usual notes underneath—warm, buttery, salty. Despite his tongue sweeping through my mouth, all I can think is _‘I want to taste him’_.

I adore Snow’s kisses. I would gladly give up most of life’s little comforts for more of his expert mouth on mine. While I am very much itching for intimacy far beyond the scope of one mouth on another, I am filled with gratitude for every kiss I get. Especially the ones like these, where he lets us snog with no concern for the passage of time, like he’s the one with an extended lifespan. The only indication towards the duration of our task is the occasional discomfort and need to shift about on the sofa.

I’m refraining from lying back and pulling him over me because I don’t want to spook him. He’s been…well, he’s been abundantly good to me today. The last thing I want is to reveal my greed—I can’t have him thinking that I’m unsatisfied. I’m not. Not really.

I _do_ love this. I love him. I love his kisses, and his scent. I love the sounds he’s spilling into my mouth and the feel of his fingers through my hair and down the placket of my shirt. I love the flowers and the present. I love the promise that it brings. That we’ll still be together in a month. That he wants a do-over road trip with me. That he wants to be _alone_ with me, away from everyone and everything, for _two nights_.

I love it. And I’m so happy I could cry. And…

And yet I _want_.

SIMON

Baz is doing that thing where he touches me like I’m made out of glass. Not even glass—sand. Like I’m so fragile, I’ve not even progressed to the point where I’m sturdy enough to be _glass_ yet. He’s taking these deep inhales and holding them, as if his breath alone could make me crumble.

‘ _Fucking touch me,’_ I want to yell. I can’t. I’m not sure if it’s really what I want.

No— I do. I _do_ —

But he’s—

This bratty little noise rumbles in the back of Baz’s throat as I break our kiss. I’m thrumming with nerves and mismatched desires, though I can’t help being amused. He’s a little dazed, a little pouty, and it makes my want grow.

“You’re holding back,” I say.

“What?”

I rub my hands over his neck and shoulders. Baz’s hands have been glued to my waist the whole time. “More than usual,” I add. “Like. Um. Like you used to. Before— I mean. I know we’ve been, um— We were— _I_ was—” I groan and rough up my hair.

Baz pets his hand down my hip, over the outside of my thigh, finally _moving_ , finally actually touching me. “Simon…?”

I swallow and stare down at his hand on my leg, which makes him pull away. I have to grab him, shove his hand back onto me. “Don’t— Don’t do that. If you want— _fuck, Baz_ —if you want to touch me, then fucking do it.”

His fingers tighten around my leg—it’s all just tension. He’s frowning and working his jaw. “I don’t want you to…to think that I’m…pressuring you.”

I feel myself getting all heated and twisted up with aggravation, which is really not the direction I was hoping this would go. I want to yell at him. I know that’s stupid. I know this is all more my fault than it is his. I know I’m the one with the insecurities and all the walls and all the cowardice—

No…

I breathe in deep.

Baz is all those things, also.

( _Because we match.)_

He’s not pressuring me—he never has done. Not while we’ve been boyfriends, anyway. And that’s the problem, innit? I’m so used to him jerking me around, calling all the shots. (I’m used to that not just from Baz—but I’m not going to think about that right now.) I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing if I’m not rising up to his challenges.

Baz isn’t pressuring me, but maybe I _need_ him to pressure me. Which might be well fucked. And I can’t actually ask him to do that, not after I spent so long beating that out of him. (The one time I actually beat Baz at something....) I just need to show him I’m good for the fight again. I need to work him back up to the bossy twat he used to be. I know he’s got the potential for it.

For now…I’ve got the calendar to pressure me.

“Listen,” I say, “remember on Valentine’s Day…? What, um—what I said? About your birthday present—?”

“You don’t have to,” Baz jumps in. “I’m not expecting anything, you’ve already done more th—”

“God, Baz, _fuck off.”_ I shove him before I realize I’m doing it, sending him half-sprawling along the couch cushions. He goggles at me, mouth falling open.

Might as well barrel forth—I knock one of my legs into his, nudging him into a better position so that I can dip my hand into his front trouser pocket. Baz jumps, though he doesn’t stop me. I pull out his mobile and shove it against his chest.

“I said I might let you, and now I’ve made my decision, all right?” I grunt at him. “So, here’s what’s about to happen: I’m going to the toilet. And you’re going to lie here and—and write me a text. You’re going to write out a, a fucking fantasy. Exactly what you want from me right now. The fucking _ideal_ , yeah?” Baz’s face is gently flushed, which is a lot for him, especially at this time of day. He looks like he might start arguing with me, so I don’t stop talking. “Do it. Don’t think about what I want, or what I’ll let you do. Just fucking write it. And—and then send it to me. I won’t leave the toilet until you send it to me.”

Baz clears his throat.

“All right?” I say, softer.

“All right.”

I dip over him, hovering. “And don’t lie,” I say. “Penny charmed me—I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.”

Baz’s eyebrow shoots up, which still manages to do things to me. “That’s not true.”

“How do you know?” I tease. (He knows because I’m a shit liar and can’t hold back my goofy grin.) I press a kiss to his forehead, then scramble off the couch, over his damn leggy legs that are fucking everywhere.

“This sounds like a truly terrible idea,” Baz protests, while I ruffle his hair as I go past.

“I’ve got the _best_ terrible ideas,” I say. And then I wait in the loo.

BAZ

While I take calming breaths, I begin composing a text to Snow.

— _Before I regale you with my first foray into the art of composing smut literature, let me first say two things to you, Simon Snow: one, you are a cheeky, foolish, nightmare of a man, and I have never found anyone to be as gorgeous and delightful as you; two, if this is the catalyst that tears our relationship apart, I am placing all blame on Penelope Bunce for “charming” you. (And yes, Snow, I did just use both a colon and a semicolon in a text message.)_

_And so, your request…_

_In an ideal scenario, I would be waiting for you in the bedroom. You would come out of my bathroom in your Henley, your pants, and your socks. (Your shirt and jeans would be in a heap on my bathroom floor for me to discover later, much later, and secretly delight in.) You would crawl onto my bed and sit up against my pillows, which I will have already fluffed for you. You would be completely comfortable and only the slightest bit too warm. When I touch your thighs, right above your knees, the coolness of my hands would make you sigh in bliss. You would let me sit between your bare legs and let me pet your skin, map your freckles and moles, cool you down to perfection. You would enjoy the anticipation of it; you would be half-hard from this alone. You would reach down to rub yourself over your pants, and I would reach down to lift your shirt, enough that I could kiss your belly. There would be so little space between us with my body folded over you like that. And you would ache. You would rub yourself more and let yourself want, let me provide. Your hand and my mouth would pleasure you through your pants until you need more. You would shove your pants down your thighs and let me tear them off you the rest of the way. And then, Simon Snow, you would lie there, gripping yourself and waiting while I drink in the glorious sight of you, until I finally cave to your impatience (and my own) and take you into my mouth. You would pull my hair into your fist, holding on, and you would growl and moan for me, love. I would suck you to completion and finally, fucking finally, know the taste of you._

I’m terrified. Burning with want and shame.

I shouldn’t have sent it. I shouldn’t have said even half of that.

( _Mea culpa, mea culpa—_ )

I hold my breath. I wait for his reply.

( _The slow passage of time. Vampire. Sucking. What a crap joke.)_

I should write back. What if he feels trapped? I need to give him an out—

A whimper falls out of me when my phone vibrates in my hands.

— _fuck_

_baz_

_bedroom_

_go_

_fluff those fucking pillows_

SIMON

It’s not quite that effortless, of course.

I am definitely already half-hard when I get out there. (At least.) And the pillows are well fluffed. Baz is still dressed, sitting on the bed and waiting for me. All of that’s good.

What’s not good is how terrified I am. I’ve walked into how many battles? How many lairs? How many traps and riddles and mazes? And _this_ is what I’m scared by? Having my trousers off in front of my boyfriend? Being promised a blow job— _that’s_ what scares the Chosen One?

_I said I’d do this for his birthday. It’s his birthday. So I’m going to fucking do it._

What’s also not good is that Baz isn’t giving me that hungry, _starving_ look I’ve imagined so many times. (I’ve even _seen_ it a few times.) No, Baz looks on the brink. Like if he coils himself tight enough, he can somehow keep all the anxiety and whatever-else from spilling out. I wish he weren’t so nervous. How am I supposed to get un-nervous if he’s so fucking nervous?

_You said you wanted this. I’m doing it all just like you said. Fucking get on with it!_

“Well?” I croak out because I’m lying against all his lovely-smelling pillows and he’s yet to touch me.

Baz gulps. “Well....” He sets his hand above my knee, like he said, and his touch is cold. Unlike what he said, he’s doing it as if he’s afraid I’ll turn to dust under the weight of him.

I hate seeing him like this. I hate that I made him like this.

“More,” I say. I don’t sound very steady about it, unfortunately. “All that mapping you talked about, do that.”

“Ah,” Baz licks his lips, “right....”

He kneels between my legs. I tense and have to close my eyes. He’s right there. Looking at me. _Touching_ me, now. Properly. Running cold, rough fingers along my thighs in varying patterns that are so tentative it makes my skin crawl with impatience. Not in a good way.

“Is this how you touch me in your fantasies?” I manage to glare at him when I ask it.

Baz frowns. “You’re real, Snow. You’re not a fantasy.”

“Treat me like one.”

“What?”

I give the mattress a small whack. “How am I supposed to keep a stiffy like this, huh? With all this nervy shit?”

Baz blinks at me. Clears his throat. “Um. Well.”

“Don’t fucking ‘um, well’ me, Baz, that’s my job.” I prod him with the inside of one knee. “Do you want me or not?”

“Of course I want you, Snow!”

Fuck…he actually _growls_ it.

That’s better. That’s got potential.

I can work with this.

Humming, I press my shoulders into his pillows and reach a hand down to give myself a squeeze. “Prove it.”

BAZ

This stupidly brave man.

Where does he get the mettle to allow a vampire to kiss up the inside of his thigh?

I follow along the arterial lines, his soft golden hairs tickling my nose as I encroach on the spot where his blood and heat are pooling so fervently. I’m salivating by the time my lips latch on to the thick curve of him through his pants. (They’re a dark red, and I wonder if he realizes they match the bouquet.)

Snow groans. It’s with an exquisite thrill that I note this is a sound I’ve never heard from him before—and what’s more, there’s an entire library of Simon Snow vocalisations to come, hitherto unheard.

I’m entranced. My nose and lips bump into his touch as he palms himself. The soft scrape of his skin against the fabric makes my spine tingle. He’s so much warmer here than I am. I want to feel the sear of him against my tongue.

Soon. Crowley, _soon_ —

I search out his tip and suck it through the damp fabric. Snow growls and strains against a long shudder, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s beautiful, flushed and gasping, making everything into a production. The rise and fall of his broad chest is a whole bloody scene in itself. Watching him distracts me from my task.

Snow opens his eyes to squint at me. “Baz…?”

“Sorry.” I nuzzle along the length of him. “Is this all okay?”

“Yeah.”

“More?”

“Y-yeah....”

I lean back. Snow struggles with pushing down his pants. I’m unsure if he’s shaky from trepidation or titillation—perhaps both. I complete the task for him, like I said I would. Containing my glee over divesting Snow of his pants is no small task. Though the sight of him unveiled before me is sufficiently distracting.

SIMON

I run what I can remember of Baz’s message through my head. ‘ _You’ll lie there, gripping yourself, while I drink in the sight of you.’_ Merlin, he’s really doing just that. It’s intimidating as fuck. I’m worried I’ll start to get soft. I close my eyes and keep running his words through my head.

I’m trying not to panic, but it’s like I can _feel_ his gaze on me. Which is probably more upsetting than if I just watched him watch me.

Baz has been holding his breath. I hear him exhale roughly, a small sound coming out with it, and I snap open my eyes.

 _Fuck me_.

He’s finally got that hungry glint I wanted to see.

_He wants me._

Baz Pitch, this perfect fucking specimen, _wants me._

I’ve not gone soft at all. I’m aching now.

 _I want him_.

“Baz—” My voice comes out tight. It feels like he’s sitting on my chest. In a good way, somehow. I’m not going to turn to dust under the weight of it.

“Simon,” he breathes, his hands flattening over my hips, thumbs swiping down the path of my pelvis. His eyes flick between my cock and my face. “May I…?”

“ _Please_.”

BAZ

I get comfortable on my stomach between his legs, and I take him into my hand. We both groan.

_I’m licking Simon Snow’s cock._

This is hundreds of dreams coming true.

 _Simon Snow is_ letting me _lick his cock._

I have to close my eyes. The scent and heat and taste of him is dizzying. Then he says my name like a curse and pulls my hair back with both hands, and I can’t resist grinding my hips against the mattress.

_Simon Snow is letting me lick his cock, and I’m going to come in my pants._

I’m not even taking him into my mouth yet. I’m lapping and kissing and suckling down his underside. He’s trembling, thighs spreading wider. I flick my tongue through his wet slit, and his hips jump. I jerk back.

“Fuck—” he gasps. He releases my hair. “Sorry—!”

“It’s all right,” I quickly assure. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

Snow stares down at me with wide eyes made all the bluer by his blotchy cheeks. “Are you— Will your— I mean. Your fangs?”

I really do try not to sneer. (I don’t succeed.) “I’m not going to bite your cock, Snow.”

“It’s an understandable concern,” he says.

I’d flush with shame if my minimal blood wasn’t otherwise occupied. “I can control them better than that.” Several months ago, perhaps not, but.... “Just try not to do any sudden thrusting, all right?”

Snow gulps. “Right....”

“May I…hold down your hips?”

“What? Fuck. _Yeah_. All right.”

I press both of my hands to Snow’s hips—and I press my own against the bed—and then…I swallow him down.

SIMON

I figured getting your dick sucked would feel fucking weird, and I was right.

It’s also _fucking amazing._

 _Oh,_ I think, _this is why guys talk about this so much_.

Turns out it’s hard to stay nervous when the bloke you’re disgustingly in love with has half of your cock in his mouth. (His cool mouth with that wicked tongue and those pouty lips that really do look so fucking good right now—)

My brain feels like a game of Space Invaders. Like every time there’s encroaching danger, Baz blitzes it away with a wave of pleasure. And the longer that goes on, the more the tension builds—the anticipation—the potential for danger—

The potential for—

“Baz!”

He pops off of me with a fright. I whine and flop against the pillows.

“What’s wrong?” he urges.

“N-nothing…sorry… _fuck_....” I close my eyes while I try to catch my breath. “Got too close....”

Baz settles against my thigh. “Too close to what, love?” He’s being soft with me, not touching much. I don’t mind…it’s nice....

“To finishing.”

I open my eyes as Baz chuckles out, “That’s the point.”

“I know that, you knob,” I grunt, nudging him with my knee again. “It was…too soon.”

Baz’s smile is the perfect amount of sharp. “You want it for longer?” he purrs.

“I want you to stop humping the bed and let me watch you wank while you blow me.”

Baz eyes go wide. “Noted.”

BAZ

We’re both still wearing our shirts and socks as we lounge trousers-less and pants-less in my bed. Snow insisted I lay width-wise on my side, one arm draped over his hips, so that he has the perfect view of me wanking while I suck him.

I take it back—I _am_ living a charmed life.

Miraculously, I manage to edge myself well enough that Snow finishes first. It takes some time—I suck him to the brink, then he spooks himself, then we try again. It hadn’t occurred to me what a mandibular workout this all would be, but I’m certainly not about to complain. Snow needs as long as he needs. I’ll gladly give that to him.

I like it—I _love_ it. The way he holds back my hair, the throbbing heat of him filling me up. (The breaks he needs are good for me also, honestly—gives the itch in my gums the chance to settle.) I love the ebb and flow of his pleasure. It’s all so evident, such a magnificent display.

And his _noises_ — Crowley.

By the time Snow is ready to teeter over the threshold, he’s a blabbering mess. Gasping and growling and keening every variation of “fuck, yes, Baz, _that_ , that’s it, baby, yeah, _yeah_ , sweetheart, God.” He orgasms with a strangled sound that knocks me sideways. I spill over my fist before he’s come back down—he watches with lust-drunk eyes.

Now, we lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. His breath and pulse are settling, slower than mine. I take comfort in the sounds. He’s still alive, still whole. Still here.

Snow rolls towards me and butts his forehead against my shoulder, not quite cuddling. I press my face into his curls. There’s a faint tang of his sweat.

“Um.”

I struggle to contain my dread. “Yes?”

“No, never mind.”

How quickly it can all go to shit.

“I was about to say,” Snow prattles on, “‘Happy Birthday’, but I feel like that was more a present for me than for you.”

Oh…I laugh. “Does that mean you liked it?”

“Obviously,” he huffs.

And now my heart is soaring. He makes me terribly mercurial.

I get us under one of the blankets, and Snow spoons me. We nap until his stomach rouses him. Then we order from the Japanese restaurant I like and spend the evening half-watching Netflix.

It’s perfect.

There’s no talk of any further sexual appointments, no pressing dates on the calendar.

But I think there’s potential. 


End file.
